The knife and yet another failure
by FemaleSpock
Summary: Sinedd has a knife in his room. All he has to decide is whether to use it or not.


The knife and yet another failure

**Disclaimer:**** I do not own Galactik football and I do not make any money off this fanfiction.**

**For those of you who read my other fic 'A future that never happened' I haven't given up on it, but I was having a little trouble writing the next chapter so I decided to have a break and write this oneshot and hopefully the next chapter of that will come more easily. As for this story, this is kind of a new style for me, so I'm not exactly sure how it came out.**

It was night. Or so he was told, he lived on the Shadows planet, it was always dark there. He's lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, not looking at it. He wants to look, its got a magnetic force pulling his gaze, but for now he resists.

After a while, he sits up on the bed, and turns so he is facing it. The knife lies on his bed, it shines there innocently. He doesn't touch it yet, he just looks at it. He'd taken the knife from the table where they had eaten dinner. The team hadn't noticed him take it; they never seemed to notice anything about him. For example right now, he was screaming, screaming so loudly in his head for someone to come. But all they could here was silence. He's alone in this room, dark and womblike. No-one will stop him; no-one will even know. He looks closer at the knife. It's the kind of knife used to cut the tough meat. It could easily slice open human flesh.

As he watched he went over why he was doing this or contemplating do this. He'd heard people talk about it. People talk about the stupidity of the thing and others talking about the release it gave. Generally when someone said something was stupid he was inclined to do it, in defiance. Besides, he needed a release; he was caged by pain (pressure).

Dead parents. Losing to _them _twice. No friends. Being manipulated by stupid adults. Their smug faces. D'jok. Rocket. Doesn't matter who.

Would doing this really make it stop?

He picks up the knife by its handle. It feels violent. He's used to violence. And he knew violence did help to stop the constant stream of thoughts through his head. Violence feels good. Violence gave him the power, at least for a while. But violence against himself? What does this achieve?

It's revenge. All violence is revenge whether it's for doing something specific or just for having a better life than him. He stops. This revenge was revenge against himself, for being weak, for losing, for letting himself be taken advantage of.

He brings the knife to his arm and the metal is cold against his skin. It's just touching the skin; it's not pressed hard enough to cut or to hurt him, just gently resting there. He wonders what he'll see when he presses down hard and draws it across his arm. They'll be red blood, he supposes. And smog? That alien flux he felt pumping through his veins every second, in his arteries, carried to his every cell by capillaries. The smog is the pollution, spreading throughout his body, affecting all things. Consuming him completely. He wonders whether he would just find nothing inside. He was a shadow after all, outlined human form but with no features, just black. Black is the absence of colour, defined by what it lacking rather than what it is, he is defined by his losses (all of them). And then he wonders whether he would find the answer in the cut of his arm? An equation that might come spewing out which could put everything right. Of course he knows that there is no such thing but he want to try anyway. He always tries. He always fails.

He's prepared to do it but he hesitates. Suddenly there's no way he can do it. There's no way he can do it. Not yet. Not now. What if he killed himself? It was never about ending it, not permanently. True he wanted to destroy himself, but he didn't want to die.

Slowly he put the knife back onto his bed. He can't do this tonight. So he takes the knife and stows it under his bed. And so he fails again.

As he turns off the light, lying on his bed in the dark, Sinedd consoles himself with the thought that he could always do it another night.

**So that's the end. Please tell me what you think and review.**


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